All Last Night

All last night I had quiet
        In a fragrant dream and warm:
She became my Sabbath,
        And round my neck, her arm.

I knew the warmth in my dreaming;
        The fragrance, I suppose,
Was her hair about me,
        Or else she wore a rose.

Her hair I think; for likest
        Woodruffe 'twas, when Spring
Loitering down the wet woodways
        Treads it sauntering.

No light, nor any speaking;
        Fragrant only and warm.
Enough to know my lodging,
        The white Sabbath of her arm.

Lascelles Abercrombie

Lascelles Abercrombie, born on January 9, 1881, was an influential English poet and literary critic, part of the group known as the Dymock poets. Renowned for his dramatic verse and contribution to early 20th-century literature, he published several collections, including 'Interludes and Poems.' Abercrombie's work often explored themes of individual struggle and philosophical inquiry. He passed away on October 27, 1938, leaving behind a legacy that continues to be studied in English literature.

Lascelles Abercrombie

Ryton Firs

Lascelles Abercrombie, Simple Poetry

Roses Can Wound

Lascelles Abercrombie, Simple Poetry

Hymn To Love

Lascelles Abercrombie, Simple Poetry

English

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Overseas

Non numero horas nisi serenas

When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems
In soul I am a part of it;
A portion of its humid beams,
A form of fog, I seem to flit
From dreams to dreams....
An old château sleeps 'mid the hills
Of France: an avenue of sorbs
Conceals it: drifts of daffodils
Bloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbs
Like iron bills.
I pass the gate unquestioned; yet,
I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make
Dark pools of restless violet.
Between high bramble banks a lake,
As in a net
The tangled scales twist silver, shines....
Gray, mossy turrets swell above
A sea of leaves. And where the pines
Shade ivied walls, there lies my love,
My heart divines.
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Overseas

Non numero horas nisi serenas

When Fall drowns morns in mist, it seems
In soul I am a part of it;
A portion of its humid beams,
A form of fog, I seem to flit
From dreams to dreams....

An old château sleeps 'mid the hills
Of France: an avenue of sorbs
Conceals it: drifts of daffodils
Bloom by a 'scutcheoned gate with barbs
Like iron bills.

I pass the gate unquestioned; yet,
I feel, announced. Broad holm-oaks make
Dark pools of restless violet.
Between high bramble banks a lake, -
As in a net

The tangled scales twist silver, - shines....
Gray, mossy turrets swell above
A sea of leaves. And where the pines
Shade ivied walls, there lies my love,
My heart divines.

I know her window, slimly seen
From...

Madison Julius Cawein

Marriage Song

I

Come up, dear chosen morning, come,
Blessing the air with light,
And bid the sky repent of being dark:
Let all the spaces round the world be white,
And give the earth her green again.
Into new hours of beautiful delight,
Out of the shadow where she has lain,
Bring the earth awake for glee,
Shining with dews as fresh and clear
As my beloved's voice upon the air.
For now, O morning chosen of all days, on thee
A wondrous duty lies:
There was an evening that did loveliness foretell;
Thence upon thee, O chosen morn, it fell
To fashion into perfect destiny
The radiant prophecy.
For in an evening of young moon, that went
Filling the moist air with a rosy fire,
I and my beloved knew our love;
And knew that thou, O morning, wouldst arise

Lascelles Abercrombie

Epilogue to Emblems of Love

What shall we do for Love these days?
How shall we make an altar-blaze
To smite the horny eyes of men
With the renown of our Heaven,
And to the unbelievers prove
Our service to our dear god, Love?
What torches shall we lift above
The crowd that pushes through the mire,
To amaze the dark heads with strange fire?
I should think I were much to blame,
If never I held some fragrant flame
Above the noises of the world,
And openly 'mid men's hurrying stares,
Worshipt before the sacred fears
That are like flashing curtains furl'd
Across the presence of our lord Love.
Nay, would that I could fill the gaze
Of the whole earth with some great praise
Made in a marvel for men's eyes,
Some tower of glittering masonries,
Therein such a spirit flourishing

Lascelles Abercrombie

The Head Of Hair

O fleece, billowing down to the shoulders!
O curls! O perfume charged with languor!
Ecstasy! To populate loves dark alcove,
With memories sleeping tonight in your hair,
Id wave it, like a handkerchief, in the air!

Languid Asia and burning Africa,
absent worlds, far-off, almost dead,
live in your forest-depths of aromas!
As music floats other spirits away,
mine, my love, sails your fragrance instead.

Ill go where, full of sap, trees and men
Swoon endlessly in that ardent climate:
Thick tresses, be my tide! You contain,
O sea of ebony, the dazzling dream,
of masts, flames, sails, and oarsmen:

an echoing port where my souls a drinker
of sound, colour, scent in rolling waves:
where vessels, gliding through silk and amber,
open wide ...

Charles Baudelaire

Good Night.

O slumber on, untaught to feel
The weight of care and sorrow's blight.
Here have I often loved to steal
And o'er thee breathe a soft "good night."

And gentle as thy beauty's ray
Be all the visions of thy dreams,
Thy years be joyous as to-day,
And life be always what it seems.

Ah, may it ne'er be thine to know
The sleepless eye, the tossing head;
May He above ordain it so,
And guardian angels shield thy bed.

Now o'er thy cheek the smile betrays
Some sweetness in thy dreaming eye,
Alas that thou must wake and gaze
On things that cause thy breast a sigh!

So placid is thy pillow here,
'Tis sweet, indeed, to know thy peace,
To smoothe thy locks and drop a tear,
To clasp a hand I must release.

Ah, dost thou dream of ...

Lennox Amott